


Bring Me Back To Life

by QueerCrusader



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Smut, Listen this is just happy sappy shit with a lot of smiling and laughing bois, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27028096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCrusader/pseuds/QueerCrusader
Summary: James and Thomas break out of the plantation and learn to smile again. But like, with sex and bad retellings of Homer's Odyssey.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87





	Bring Me Back To Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [techieturnover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/techieturnover/gifts).



> For Milo. Hope this brightens your day a bit. You deserve it.
> 
> (Also, I haven't forgotten about my other WIPs, this one just took precedence right now.)

It has been several months, and James is frankly fed up. How Thomas lasted ten years, he has no idea – perhaps it was the thought that his loved ones were gone, and he was – in a way – defeated, that took the fight out of him. But James is _not_. He isn’t dead, and he isn’t defeated. He is still brimming with rage against the Empire, fuelling him and pushing him beyond the level of energy he’s seen in most men his age. And with that rage and restlessness in his veins, there is nothing that can hold him.

It took him less than a week to figure out the patterns of the visiting ships and learn the names of their captains. He quickly sussed out the familiar ones, which ones were trustworthy (none of them, really) and which were useless enough not to notice a stowaway (a couple of them). But rather than seizing their moment and getting on the first ship out, the men had taken their time to reacquaint themselves with each other.

The past months have been spent by telling stories. Stories of the plantation, stories of Captain Flint’s crimes. Stories of memories, true or distorted. Stories of Miranda, of Nassau in its true, unadulterated, unglorified and glorified truths. The men have spent their time slowly getting to know each other again, and to James’ surprise, it went easier than he ever could imagine.

He was sure the stories of his atrocities in Thomas’ name would get stuck in his throat, but as they whispered to each other in the night, hidden under the blankets in their corner of the sleeping quarters, James found that as always, the dark revealed his truths with startling ease. He’d spilled his secrets, bared himself for Thomas until he stood raw and naked in the dark. And as shocked and horrified as Thomas had been, he had also later confessed that really, it hadn’t been that much of a surprise. He’d known James, his light sides and his shadows. He’d always known there was a potential for darkness within him, had seen so many of his facets both in the salon sessions and in the bedroom. And the rage fuelling it all? Thomas knew that rage all too well.

So he hadn’t judged. He’d told James of some of his own discrepancies, the things he’d done to the Navy men holding him in transport and to the guards here at the plantation. Thomas is not a violent man by nature, but he is passionate, and with his height and strength he’d been more than capable of doing some damage.

James had listened in both shock and awe to those stories, feeling simultaneously horrified and grateful for learning that the Empire had managed to bring out the darkness in even the brightest of men. It had meant that James wasn’t alone, wasn’t a monster – not as much, at least. It could happen to the best of men. And it shifted the monstrosity from the men performing the actions to the Empire that pushed them over the brink towards those actions.

Once Thomas had found his footing at the plantation however, he’d sought for his own sense of purpose – his less steeped in blood than James’. Among the other men captive and working at the plantation are a fair few with similar backgrounds and mindsets to Thomas’, their families rich enough to sequester them here and their attitudes rebellious or sinful enough in the eyes of England for their families to want them out of sight. And so, Thomas had soon resumed his sessions of debate. He doesn’t have his books here to refer to, but he’s made it work.

His discussions of morality have taken on a different tone these days since his perspective on the Empire changed, and the men here wholeheartedly agree. James has watched them debate views on slavery or even manual labour under the blazing tropical sun, has listened to discussions of religion and the mortal sin that permeates Puritan Christian views, has joined in with a singing heart in talks of loving freely. He’s almost grown fond of the clever men here, has enjoyed watching how Thomas can summon a spark of passion in their otherwise exhausted, despondent eyes.

But the debates have done nothing to still his blood. Even with Thomas back by his side and an outlet for his passionate thoughts, he is itching to move, desperate for action. Ten years of constant fighting can’t suddenly be snuffed out and washed away by the return of his lover. In a way, he has grown addicted to action. It doesn’t need to be violence necessarily, just as long as his heart is racing with excitement. The debates are nice, but they just don’t quite cut it.

So after several months of taking his time, of carefully reacquainting himself with Thomas and walking across planks that don’t sway under his feet and only coming close to excitement in discussions and one or two stealthy eavesdrops to learn of the captains, James is more than ready to get out of there. Thomas has noticed it, too, watching him with a spark in his eye that says he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In the end, they manage to break out almost every man stuck in there with them. Some scatter inland, a couple manage to make their way onto a ship. Thomas and James are among those that choose escaping on a ship. James is half-temped to take over command and captain the vessel, but that would cause both chaos and bloodshed. He can’t risk Thomas getting hurt, nor does he particularly feel like slitting throats in front of the man. So instead, they become stowaways.

“And you’re sure they won’t find us here?” Thomas asks in a low voice as they shift around a couple of potato and flour sacks to make a semi-comfortable nest behind the pickle barrels.

“People may come down here once a day at most. It’ll be easy enough to figure out their patterns and make ourselves scarce when it happens,” James tells him as he sinks down on a knobbly potato sack. He grimaces as a muscle in his back twinges. With any luck they might be able to steal some clothing or a spare hammock. He really is getting too old to sleep on the floor surrounded by produce.

It’s a little cramped, causing the men to be squeezed together in the small space, their knees lightly touching. Thomas sends him a playful smile, and James feels himself mirroring it. He feels like a naughty schoolboy skiving from class. Not that he’s ever been a schoolboy, but he _has_ been studying the art of sailing from a very young age, and as dedicated as he was, he was also a teen with a temper. He’s _definitely_ gone off into town every now and then when he should be performing work on the docked ship, only to face Henessey’s wrath upon returning.

“I think we may need to ‘make ourselves scarce’ a little more often than once a day,” Thomas quips. “Unless you’re happy getting permanently stuck in this position.”

“Well, this position has its perks,” James replies, nudging his knee against Thomas’. “We’re surrounded by food, and plenty of physical contact…”

“Ah yes, pickled eggs and touching knees,” Thomas nods sagely. “What more could a man want?”

“Well, if we’re looking not to get too stiff –”

“That depends –”

“We can always find some other form of movement,” James finishes with a waggle of his eyebrow. “God, can you let me finish my sex joke before intersecting with your own?”

“Darling, I always let you finish first,” Thomas replies, and James barks out a laugh. Thomas’ eyes shine as he watches James’ amusement. Here, in the bowels of a merchant vessel, with aching backs and the smell of vinegar heavy in their noses, they are rediscovering a sense of joy both men thought lost years ago.

Thomas leans in then, almost brushing his lips against James’, in a way reminiscent of their first kiss a decade prior. This time though, James doesn’t shy away. Instead, he sighs, feeling an inkling of peace flow through his veins to quiet the thrumming of his blood as he crosses the hair’s breadth of a gap. There are times where Thomas’ kisses rile him, scratching the itch he feels at all times these days, but there are times too where they cool him like a breeze on a hot Caribbean day. He’s able to let his worries fall away for a moment and just drink him in.

“Much as I enjoy simply making out,” Thomas mutters against his lips, and James smirks in anticipation, “I’ve also been waiting to do just a little more, at the very least.”

“Just a little?” James retorts as his fingers card through Thomas’ hair. He remembers so well how Thomas shivers when he lightly scrapes his nails along the nape of the man’s neck. He remembers the ever-surprised gasp against his lips as it happens, and he smiles as he licks it from Thomas’ mouth.

“Well,” Thomas mutters a little breathlessly, “perhaps I wish for substantially more.” His eyes open to meet James’, and there is something in there that makes James’ stomach _lurch_ right before he is pressed back against the floor. The speed, the hunger, the glint in Thomas’ eye all make his pulse race in a way he hasn’t felt in months. He can feel his upper lip curl up ever so slightly into something teetering on the edge between smile and snarl. Thomas laughs, the sound low and warm, as he watches him.

“Here?” James says. “Now? And I thought I might gather some cloth first, make ourselves a proper little den over time so that we might be comfortable when the mood takes us.”

“As if you’ve ever had the patience,” Thomas laughs. He leans in, and James welcomes the weight of him pressing him down into the wooden floorboard. His breath hitches even before Thomas’ mouth meets the skin of his throat, eyelids fluttering as his hips roll ever so slightly in search of friction. “You don’t know,” he manages, and he feels Thomas’ amused huff cool the wet patch on his jugular. “I might have grown terribly patient in my older years.”

Thomas shimmies his own body a little lower, his arse now properly nestled over James’ groin. He uses his weight to keep the man beneath him still. “I may have grown older too,” he says, “but my skills of observation have not failed me yet. I must say, I am mighty impressed with how long you managed to hold off from burning the plantation to the ground.”

James can’t help but let out a low moan at that, and James props himself up a little to meet his gaze. “You have always impressed me, James,” he tells his lover warmly. “Impressed me, amazed me. I am nothing short of proud of you, and of everything you’ve done. I need you to know this.”

James swallows heavily. He doesn’t remember the last time someone said something like it to him. It might have been Gates, before he started chasing the Urca. But Thomas quickly chases away the memory with a deep kiss.

“Watching your passion is like staring into the sun,” the man tells him. “So painfully bright, yet so tempting.”

“That mouth of you never stops moving,” James laughs. “I forgot.”

“Have you?” Thomas asks. “All those afternoons as you held my cock in your mouth while I read you passages of Homer, Ovid, Euripides? Have those memories faded? Surely you’re not so old yet.”

James laughs. No, those memories have not left him just yet; he doubts they ever will. Part of him wants to tease, wants to tell Thomas that perhaps the man should get his mouth on James’ cock for once, see if that will silence him – somehow, James doubts it – but really, he’d much rather listen to Thomas all day. He wants to listen to him debate, argue, laugh, tell stories, whisper praise into James’ skin until the sun goes down and comes up again the following morning. He wants to do it for the rest of his life. With a jolt, he realises that now, he can.

“Remind me,” he says, and he can tell from the glint in Thomas’ eyes that his lover knows he hasn’t forgotten.

“I don’t have my books with me here.”

“I’m sure you remember the stories.”

Thomas laughs softly and leans down to kiss James again. James frowns.

“What do I owe that for?”

“Nothing,” Thomas tells him with a little smile. “I kissed you because I can. Because I want to.”

James swallows thickly. God, how long it’s been. “Do it again,” he whispers hoarsely. Thomas obliges.

“Do you want to have me in your mouth again like old times?” Thomas asks him earnestly after a few minutes.

“Comforting as that sounds,” James replies, “I think I’d rather have you in me another way.”

Thomas laughs. “No need to be coy, James,” he says. “We’ve surely grown past that. I will gladly fuck you.” He starts to undo James’ breeches as James takes off his shirt. Together they make quick work of removing their clothes, though it could have gone quicker if they hadn’t taken the time to brush fingers over every muscle and scar they came across. Even Thomas seems to have gained a substantial amount, and for a moment James feels his old fury raising its ugly head, whispering to him to take revenge for every mark that wasn’t there before, but he squashes it.

“Do you have oil?” he asks Thomas, who snorts.

“James, we’re lying on a pile of stored food. If there’s no oil to be found here, I’ll eat my wig.”

“Well, now you’ve put me in the worst position,” James complains. “I’m going to need that oil, but I also desperately want you to find and destroy that monstrosity.”

“Hey, I’m talking of my _good_ wig,” Thomas protests as he searches around among the barrels and sacks. James lies back and with a contented sigh watches his lover’s arse, still pale as it was in London, though it has become leaner and more toned with years of physical labour.

“As if you’d ever hurt your good wig,” James says. He absentmindedly takes his cock in hand, letting his fingers dance across the skin. His breath hitches, and it draws Thomas’ attention.

“Like I said,” the man notes, crawling back with a bottle of new-found oil now in his hand, “no patience.” He kisses James with a laugh on his lips. “Some things never change.”

“Will you finger me?” James asks quietly.

“You need the stretch?”

James doesn’t answer, but he can see Thomas _knows_ , understands he needs this to be drawn out, needs the singular attention Thomas brings to fingering him. It is never a chore and always an act in itself. They could spend hours like that, with Thomas’ fingers buried deep in James, stretching and stroking and fucking him until he was loose enough for Thomas’ entire hand if he wished to take that much. On days he did, he’d be a sobbing mess, undone with the fullness of it all, but more so the sheer _love_ that was focused on him.

Thomas kisses him again. “What story would you like me to tell?” he asks as he oils up his fingers. James smiles.

“Tell me of Odysseus.”

“You know the Odyssey by heart.”

“I like your version better.”

Thomas laughs at that. He reaches between James’ legs, who shifts and lets his knees fall outward for better access. He sighs and settles back while Thomas gently brushes against his hole.

“The king of Ithaca,” he begins, and James just lies and listens. Thomas’ administrations are slow, but not so slow that they become easy to ignore. James is constantly aware of Thomas’ touch, the press of his fingers, slowly yet insistently pumping, scissoring, twisting and stroking inside of him. He has to hold back his moans lest he interrupt Thomas’ story, for he does want to hear it, wants to hear his lover talk and weave images of the clever sailor lost at sea. Every now and then he can’t help himself though, and Thomas has to briefly pause his story with an amused smirk as James moans and shakes beneath him.

He’s talking of the cyclops by the time he adds a fourth finger. He’s leaned in close, their bodies pressed together so that he can mutter the words directly into James’ ear, his cock pressed against the man’s hip.

“The _enormous_ giant,” he tells as he slowly presses in again, and James throws his head back, his breath punched from his chest. “With his one, leering eye – that is, if you ignore the –”

“That is _not_ how Homer wrote it,” James just about manages to make out.

“No?” Thomas asks, feigning confusion, all the while still slowly pumping in and out of James. “Homer never described the cyclops’ –”

“I’d really rather not hear about the cock of a flesh-eating monster,” James laughs breathlessly.

“But James, _we_ eat flesh too,” Thomas reminds him. “Sheep’s cheese too, and red wine. What sets us apart from the cyclops?”

“Other than his sheer joy in killing men?”

They fall silent for a second, Thomas’ eyes wide on James, but James snorts. “I’ve never eaten human meat,” he then says, breaking the tension a little. “Though the men liked to think different.”

Thomas laughs at that, retreating his fingers, to James’ disappointment. But within seconds the emptiness is filled again, this time with Thomas’ cock, and they both let out a drawn-out moan. Much as the fingering has always been a comfort to James, this – _this right here_ – is like coming home.

“They must have feared you so,” Thomas mutters, now into the nape of James’ neck. James nods breathlessly, barely hearing what his lover says. The sensation is so overwhelming, the pressure and friction on his own cock trapped between their bodies blinding, the fullness in his ass bliss.

“There were more stories,” he manages as Thomas slowly drags out before thrusting back in. “I didn’t come up with any of them.”

“Who did?”

“The men themselves,” he replies breathlessly. “Eleanor had fun with it once or twice. Most came from Miranda though, spread across the island by errand boys.”

Thomas laughs at that. “Oh, that doesn’t surprise me.” He thrusts in again, and both men let out another moan. “She did so enjoy spreading tales before others could do it for her.”

“She had a knack for upending the status quo single-handedly,” James laughs.

“A politician and a pirate lord, and she held more power than the both of us combined.”

Thomas’ movements slow, and James reaches up to hold his face.

“I may not believe in Heaven the way you did – still do?” he asks, and the twinkle in Thomas’ damp eyes tells him that will be a fascinating discussion for another time, “but I know she’s still by our side.”

Thomas swallows and nods. “In that case, I would like to speak of her only in present tense,” he says. “To help carry her with us.”

“With her power, I have no doubt her presence spans time and space,” James says. “The present tense is fitting.”

They kiss again, and this time it’s bittersweet.

“As much as I respect the need to mourn and stand still at Miranda’s memory for a moment,” James mutters against Thomas’ lips after a minute or so, “but Thomas…”

“Yes, dear?”

“I still have your cock buried in my ass.”

“‘Will you kindly start moving again, my love?’ Of course, dear. And how lovely of you to ask with such patience and restraint.”

“Shut up and fuck me already.”

They both laugh at that. “Oh, so no more stories of Odysseus?”

“Not if you’re going to focus on monster cock, no,” James tells him, and Thomas shakes his head.

“No fun at all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry fucking me is not diverting enough.”

Thomas smirks before snapping his hips, slamming the air out of James’ lungs yet again in a drawn-out groan. He draws out slowly, then slams back in, before starting to pick up pace.

“Oh, _God_ ,” James manages between thrusts. His fingers dig into the muscles of Thomas’ back, his head thrown back. “ _Mercy._ ”

“You’ll find it in coming,” Thomas tells him in a low voice, and James can’t help but _ache_ at that. “I think we’ve had enough slow love for now, don’t you?”

James laughs again, breathless, and he can’t remember the last time he laughed this much, felt this light and free. “Set the pace,” he tells Thomas. “Kill me with it if you like.” _I know I’m in safe hands._

“I could never kill you,” Thomas whispers into his skin, gentle in his words though his hips slowly build to a more brutal pace.

James is slowly starting to lose all sense of self, but he just manages to reply, “you have already. Many times before.”

“Yet here you are.”

“You also bring me back to life.”

They don’t speak anymore after that; the only noises are those of sweat-slick skin slapping on skin, groans and swallowed moans, and the creaking of the ship around them.

James can feel his orgasm coming like the rising tide, approaching to wipe him out. His breath hitches, and he clings on tighter to Thomas, who meets his gaze.

“It’s alright, James,” he whispers. “Let it happen. Hold on to me. I’m here. Let it happen.”

And with that, it washes over him, crashes into him, and he lets himself fall into the sensation with a cry as he feels it from his toes all the way to the crown of his head. It lightens him, lifts him up and out of himself until he feels delirious, only grounded by the sense of Thomas still rocking inside him. He’s barely aware of his cock spurting so high it hits his clavicle, and Thomas bows his head to lick him clean. He sobs at the sensation of it.

“You’re alright,” Thomas whispers into the hollow of his throat, but his voice is strained as he continues to thrust into James. “I have you, you’re safe with me, you did so beautifully, God James, I love you so much – oh _God_ –”

And with a final cry, he comes too. James, who is still out of it but sensitive to every little thing, can feel Thomas’ cock spurting inside him, and he lets out a whimper.

Both men go limp after that, the sweat cooling on their skin as they recover. Thomas keeps gently brushing James’ face and kissing his cheeks, and it takes a few minutes for James to realise he’s silently crying.

“Happy?” Thomas whispers, and James let out a wet little chuckle.

“Yes,” is all he manages. He’s lying on a sack of potatoes, and the corner of a sugar crate is digging into him somewhere, and he won’t even _begin_ to dwell on the splinters, but yes. He is happier than he remembers being in a very long time. This is real. He has Thomas back – they have each other again. And they have the rest of their lives ahead of them. No force will divide them again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](https://queer-crusader.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
